I may joke from time to time that I’m on the verge of an F1 career and only need another 290km or so for my Superlicence. Full of the sort of confidence that only three laps in a 2013 Lotus can bring a man, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, from time to time I offer advice to Damon and Johnny on the finer points of race craft.

But in the cold light of day, I know that as much as I’d like to kid myself, I’m no racing driver. In fact, as much as I love sport and playing sport, I’m probably not much a sportsman either. Not in the respect that you can count on me to fire home the winning penalty, or make the 6 foot putt for par, or hit the winning runs, or take out the 170 check out with my opponent waiting on double 16.

I mention that last scenario because it happened once, it really did. But only once and never have I ever come close to repeating the feat, much to the dismay of some of my darting teammates over the years.